


A Sort of Homecoming

by swaps55



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mass Effect 2 Shepard is a mess, Mass Effect Holiday Cheer, Mentions of Shepard/Kirrahe, Mordin makes him less of a mess, Shepard (Mass Effect) has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, but no actual Kirrahe, in a bad way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 17:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17626538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaps55/pseuds/swaps55
Summary: You’d think that with all the cybernetics and synthetic tissue crammed into his system Cerberus would have solved his chronic insomnia problem, but apparently the lllusive Man’s mantra to “bring Shepard back exactly how he was” means his bad habit of surviving off late nights and strong coffee is doomed to continue.But, perhaps, with a salarian on board, the loneliness is not.





	A Sort of Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Mass Effect Holiday Cheer gift for sexy-salmon!

It’s a surprise but not a surprise when Shepard shows up in the mess at 0200 and isn’t alone. There are people up, of course, but Cerberus isn’t a military ship, and third shift is staffed light. The galley is empty, everything cleaned and stored away until Rupert comes back on shift around 0500. Not a lot of people looking for a snack at this hour, but food isn’t really what Shepard’s here for anyway.

You’d think that with all the cybernetics and synthetic tissue crammed into his system Cerberus would have solved his chronic insomnia problem, but apparently the lllusive Man’s mantra to “bring Shepard back exactly how he was” means his bad habit of surviving off late nights and strong coffee is doomed to continue.

But, perhaps, with a salarian on board, the loneliness is not.  

Dr. Solus sits at one of the tables, humming to himself while skimming a datapad and drinking something out of a mug. It doesn’t smell like coffee, doesn’t smell like much of anything, and Shepard has no idea what was on the requisition list Mordin gave to Chambers. Did the salarian also sustain himself on stimulants? Or did he drink something more like green tea in a vain attempt to slow down the constantly moving hamster wheel in his brain?

The only thing he really knows about the salarian doctor is that he talks faster than Shepard can think and has good taste in pistols. Shepard’s already gone a few rounds with the Carnifex Mordin gave him, and he’s all but abandoned the Predator that Cerberus outfitted him with. So at least when it comes to guns they have some common ground.

Despite having only boarded the ship a mere 24 hours ago, there’s something about the way Mordin’s sitting that makes it seem like he’s been on the _Normandy_ for months. That makes one of them, at least.

So far being on this _Normandy_ is a little too much like stumbling home to the wrong address after a long night at the bar. He’s apologized to Miranda three times so far for thinking her office was his quarters.

Cerberus appears to have gotten the muscle memory right, too.  

“Hey,” Shepard says, sliding into a seat across from him. Mordin blinks, sets the datapad down.

“Shepard. How can I help?”

Shepard shrugs. It’s not until Mordin asks the question that Shepard wonders if help is what he’s looking for. “Just nice to see someone else awake.”

“Needed a few minutes to go over data,” Mordin says, in a pleasant tone that is in sharp contrast to the ungodly hour. “Studying results from last round of tests until next finishes compiling.”

“Sleep built into your schedule at all?” Shepard asks, hiding a yawn with the back of his hand.

“Between tissue synthesis and shift change,” Mordin replies, nonplussed.

“Shift change? Shift change doesn’t apply to you.”

Mordin takes a sip from his cup. “Yes, but hot breakfast does.”

Shepard chuckles a little. It’s a source of constant fasciation – not to mention envy – how little sleep salarians need. Trying to keep up with Kirrahe was not for the weak at heart.

_Was_.

The thought of Kirrahe makes his heart twist for just a moment. He hasn’t let himself think of Kirrahe yet, and he’s not ready to now.

But it helps remind him what he came here for. If he’s not going to get any sleep, he might as well fuel up with some coffee and get shit done. He stands up and heads for the galley to switch on the coffee pot.

“I’m envious,” he says, making a face when he opens the lid to find the most recent set of grounds still moldering inside. “I’ve never been able to program myself to sleep when it’s convenient. Especially now.”

There’s a large weight attached to what he doesn’t say – _now that I’m alive in a resurrected body that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me._

Mordin cocks his head to the side ever so slightly. “Experiencing altered baseline sleep patterns?”

“Always been a bad sleeper,” he says with a dismissive wave.  

“But worse now?” Mordin prods.

Shepard shrugs, dumps out the coffee grounds and rinses the filter. “I’ve only been back from the dead for about a week, so hard to say what’s normal and what isn’t.”

The answer, really, is that nothing is normal. There’s a Cerberus logo on his chest, the scar on his forehead he earned from an ill-advised venture into a tree when he was twelve is missing, and he doesn’t know if he’s twenty nine or thirty one. 

The creases lining Mordin’s craggy countenance deepen thoughtfully. “So either anomaly or new baseline. Examined biometric sleep data?”

Shepard stares hard at the brewing coffee, suddenly very aware of the doctor’s gaze. This is quickly developing into a Thing that he doesn’t really want to explore. “Uh.”

“Hm. Need data to diagnose problem. Develop solution.”

“I didn’t ask for a solution,” Shepard snaps.

The coffee finishes brewing. For half a beat there’s silence, but it doesn’t last any longer than that.  

“Spoken to Miranda?”

Shepard grips the pot a little too tight as he pours coffee into a mug, refusing to divert his gaze away from his hands. “Didn’t see a reason to.”

He has a feeling Mordin has, though. A salarian geneticist and former STG operative was bound to be intrigued by the human who had literally been brought back from the dead.

Shepard sighs and sits back down at the table. “What did Miranda tell you?”

If Mordin feels any chagrin about digging into Shepard’s medical details, he doesn’t show it. “Was curious about methods to restore vacuum exposed tissue. Miranda…not forthcoming.”  

Shepard winces a little, fidgets with the cup, then takes a sip even though it’s still too hot. He makes a face when it burns his tongue.

“I suppose I should thank her for protecting my privacy.”

He’s betting it has more to do with protecting Cerberus secrets than it does his privacy, but maybe he’s being too hard on her.

Mordin reaches out and puts a hand over his. Shepard stares at it in surprise.

“Here if you want help,” he says simply, then goes back to his datapad. Moments later, his murmuring resumes.

Shepard sips his coffee in silence, listening to the salarian prattle to himself. It’s oddly comforting.   

~

It’s now 0400 and sleep feels like a foreign language he never learned.

He tosses a datapad on his desk when he retreats to his quarters, sinks into the chair and gazes at his new home. Civilian touches, just like Joker had said. He’s never had anything like it. The captain’s quarters on the original _Normandy_ had felt like wasted excess, and he’s pretty sure you could fit it in this room twice. What does one person need all this space for, hidden away from the rest of the ship?

Also, why the _hell_ is there a fish tank in here?

His eyes fall to the bed. Or rather, what’s above it. The black maw of space sinks down through a gaping observation window, pinned back only by the winking light of a handful of stars.

It makes him feel inexplicably cold.  

What had it felt like to die?

To lose hold of the _Normandy’s_ deck plates, be ejected so violently into the space between those stars?

Does he want to know if his inability to sleep is because his new, reengineered body is less human than his old one or if it’s because he’s afraid that every time he closes eyes, his dreams will show him a fractured hardsuit, surrounded by wisps of escaping oxygen against the nova of the tantalus drive core? Would either answer make him feel better?

Whether it would or not, it’s at least somewhere to start.

He should probably be knocking on Miranda’s door to sort this out. Miranda is the one who apparently knows him inside and out on an intimate level he thought was reserved for someone else.

Again, he thinks of Kirrahe. Again, he pushes the thought away.

_One thing at a time_.

The fact of the matter is he doesn’t trust Miranda.

There is always Dr. Chakwas. Chakwas is someone he trusts. But when he looks at her he feels exposed. Watched. She knew the real Shepard. What if she looks at him and sees someone else?

Mordin, on the other hand, is a neutral observer. Or at least, as neutral as Shepard’s likely to get.

He flips a haptic interface to life and requisitions a sleep monitor. If Dr. Solus needs data, Shepard supposes he’ll get it for him.

~

A week later he walks into Mordin’s lab and places a small OSD into the doctor’s hand. “Sleep data,” he says. Mordin’s face brightens.

“Excellent!”

Immediately he plugs the OSD into an interface and brings up a haptic screen, eyes darting as he scans the contents.

“Biosynthetic fusion more efficient than organic reconstruction,” he says. “Immune, muscular, endocrine systems all optimized. Metabolic waste removal systems likely improved. Reduces sleep requirements.” His eyes narrow. “Could it? No. No. Increase in metabolic rates consequently enhances ROS, requiring greater periods of repair, however with adjustments to glycogen production in both awake and asleep states could sufficiently cancel out the deficit…”

Shepard hides a smile as he listens to the salarian prattle, especially since Mordin hasn’t discovered what else is on the OSD yet.

Two year’s worth of medical data from the Lazarus Project that Miranda is not going to love he’s sharing. But he doesn’t tell Mordin that. He’ll let him discover it on his own.

~

The next time he crosses paths with Mordin, it’s a 0300. This time Shepard is in the galley with a few slices of cheese and some bread. Despite being the son of a couple of Mindoir farmers, there is precisely one recipe he’s managed to master.  It’s simple, but he’s proud.

Mordin comes to a halt on the other side of the counter and peers over, scrutinizing the contents of the frying pan.

“The secret is butter,” Shepard says, throwing another pat in the pan and watching it sizzle. “You have to have the heat low enough that it melts the cheese without burning the bread.”

“Strange how humans prize bovine lactose, when your species is largely intolerant.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Wanted explanation for Donnelly’s troublesome gas.”

Shepard snorts. Carefully he lays his sandwich in the pan, snarling a little when his finger grazes the rim and burns.  

“Worth it,” he says, turning to switch on the faucet and run some cold water over the offended finger.

He rubs gently on his burned skin, examines it closely. The lined whorls that make up his fingerprints. Unique, supposedly. Something that stamps his identity. Are they the same as his old ones? Or had exposure to vacuum damaged them beyond repair, too?

That saying that you know something like the back of your hand takes on a whole different meaning when you suddenly have to actually remember the back of your hand. Had that mole been there before, or is it something new?

He wipes his hands abruptly. Turns back to his sandwich.  

“I can make one for you if you want to try one,” Shepard offers. Mordin’s mouth curls down ever so slightly in distaste.

“Offer appreciated, but never had an adventurous palate.”

Shepard shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He pushes the sandwich around in the pan. “So have you solved my sleep problem yet?”

“Data you provided too small a sample size to draw definitive conclusions,” Mordin replies, and Shepard is surprisingly disappointed. “However, additional notes helpful. Simpler to establish a probable theory.”

“Yeah? Hit me with it.” Shepard removes the sandwich from the heat. Perfect amount of brown on one side. With a proud smirk, he flicks another pat of butter into the pan and then goes to work on the other side.

“Old sleep baselines no longer relevant,” Mordin informs him. “Using data you provided as starting point for new baselines. Likely you need less rest than before, however not willing to rule out possibility that psychological effects of your ordeal at Alchera impacting results.”

Shepard grits his teeth, but when he finally looks up, Mordin’s expression is kind.

“Ordeal is one word for it, I guess.”

“Would like to continue gathering data,” Mordin says. His tone is unnervingly gentle. “Running tests. Sleep patterns unlikely to be only systems affected by biosynthetic fusion. Knowing what your body needs may help you adjust.

“Dr. Chakwas will be the first to tell you how much I _love_ tests,” he mutters. Checks his sandwich. Damn. Heat a little too high. Second side is a little less than perfect. He turns off the burner and slides the sandwich from the pan to a plate. His stomach rumbles. He tries to remember what he had for dinner, but he has to go as far back as breakfast to get to his most recent meal.

“Dietary needs likely also different,” Mordin says with a pointed look. He has some serious disdain over this grilled cheese sandwich. Shepard deliberately takes a massive bite.

“Try to take this out of my hands and you’ll find out just how improved my reflexes are.”

Mordin tilts his head, amusement in his eyes. “Objection noted. If further testing desired, know where to find me.”

~

Two nights later, Shepard shows up in the lab.

Mordin looks up from the containment unit holding a swarmer. “Shepard,” he says pleasantly. “How can I help?”

It’s a much more complicated question than Shepard wants it to be. “Just…do whatever tests you need.”

~

Late nights in the lab quickly start to become a habit. Over the course of a week or so, Mordin maps out Shepard’s new body like a cartographer charting a quadrant of stars, walking him through a detailed map of all of the Cerberus modifications that supposedly restored him to exactly as he’d been before, except where it had been convenient to make him better. Faster metabolism, increased oxygenation in his blood, some kind of experimental bone weave grafted onto his skeleton, a synthetic microfiber infused into his muscles.

There’s also the ocular synaptic processors that hone his ability to focus so strongly it feels like everything around him slows down. It had scared the shit out of them the first time they had kicked in while fighting the mechs on Lazarus station, to the point he’d almost blacked out, but he’s starting to get the hang of it. Slowly.

Most of what they discover he can handle. Even finding out that the fingerprints on his left hand have been largely reconstructed.

“Eh,” he says, a little too deliberately. “The Alliance uses my right hand for my identity scans.”

Turns out what he can’t handle is the radioimaging of the metal clamps holding his spine together from where the blowback of the _Normandy’s_ drive core going critical had crushed it.

Shepard swallows. “So,” he says, tone light but throat dry. “What’s the verdict? Am I really Commander Shepard, or am I Cerberus’s version of Frankenstein’s monster?”

Mordin blinks his wide, black eyes. “Frankenstein. Hm. Unfamiliar reference. Artist? Playwright? Novelist?”

“Close enough.”

“Never devoted much time to studying human culture, aside from dabbling in Gilbert and Sullivan. Prefer batarian theater. More stimulating.”

Shepard digests this for a moment. “Batarian…theater?”

Mordin nods. “Dak’Sharai, batarian cross-caste love stories. Among most poignant in the galaxy. Turvic Grennich a phenomenal talent – better than Anjed. In my opinion.”

“I didn’t know batarians were very…artistic.”

“Of course!” The doctor’s scornful tone takes Shepard off guard. “Batarians a repressed culture, not dead one. Hegemony doesn’t allow much to escape their borders. Have to obtain it on the black market. Could arrange for a few holo vids if you’d like.”

Shepard grimaces a little, but says sure in spite of himself. In exchange, he sends Mordin a copy of _Frankenstein_.

~

The next night when he can’t stop staring in the mirror thinking about the clamps, he activates the grainy bootleg holo footage of one of the Dak’Sharai Mordin sent him.

His door chimes near the end of it. He wipes a rogue tear from the corner of his eye before answering.

Mordin is standing in the doorway.

“Understand the source of your hypothesis,” he says. “However disagree with conclusion.”

“What hypothesis?” Shepard asks, confused.

Mordin reaches out and grabs Shepard’s hand, holding it up between them like it’s evidence. “Do not believe you are Frankenstein’s monster.”

Shepard is surprised how much the assertion moves him. He blames it on the holo vid.

Mordin lets go of Shepard’s hand and blinks, peering past him at something in his quarters. “Pardon me. Is that an aquatic tank?”

Shepard follows his gaze to the empty tank. “Oh. Yeah. That. Couldn’t begin to tell you whose idea that was.”

Mordin says nothing more about it.

~

When they dock at the Citadel a few days later, Shepard returns to the ship and heads straight to his quarters after his fruitless meeting with Anderson, ready to punch the glass of that damn fish tank with his bare fist. So much for loyalty from the Alliance. So much for a homecoming. All Anderson’s got to offer him is suspicion and misdirection, and to make things worse Shepard doesn’t blame him. If Kaidan walked off of Virmire wearing a Cerberus uniform Shepard is pretty sure he’d toss him out on his ass, but that doesn’t—

Wait.

Is that a fish in his fish tank?

It is a fish. Several, in fact. Different breeds. Couple of yellow ones. One a brilliant purple. One red with blue stripes. A couple are long and skinny, some round and squashed looking.

He stares for a few minutes. Walks closer and lays his palm flat on the glass. A few of the fish swim over to him, nosing at his hand before losing interest and darting away.  

Well. Good thing he hadn’t punched the glass.

~

Mordin asks after them the next time Shepard shows up in his lab.

“Thought they might be soothing,” he offers.

They are, actually. Something about the whir of the filter, the simple presence of something else in those huge quarters besides his own brooding thoughts. It sounds weird to say, but he thinks he’s sleeping better.

~

Shepard starts finding containers in the fridge with his name on them.

They’re not there during day shift hours. But most every time he stumbles down to the mess past midnight there’s something waiting for him. A perfectly calibrated mix of protein, carbohydrates, simple sugars. The damned salarian has analyzed his nutritional needs and infiltrated his terrible eating habits.

They’re pretty good, actually.

~

“Do you think I can still get drunk?” Shepard asks around a mouthful of pasta from one of Mordin’s latest concoctions. He’s leaning against a lab table while the salarian works, occasionally moving whenever he’s in the way.

Mordin pauses his work, expression thoughtful.

“With this increased metabolism and other nonsense.” Shepard stabs at his food. “I had a few drinks on Omega, and somehow managed to survive a batarian bartender’s attempt to, uh, serve me to death. He seemed rather shocked it didn’t work.”

“Hm.”

“Basically, I want to know if Cerberus managed to take away my right to get drunk right along with my right to die.” It comes out bitter and he knows it, but fuck. He’s bitter.  

“Can think of simple way to test,” Mordin says with a shrug.  

~

The SR2’s lounge is one upgrade over the original _Normandy_ that Shepard will grudgingly admit is a positive change. It also comes well stocked, which is good, because it ends up taking a lot of liquor to test their theory.

Shepard’s not sure if they actually _have_ a theory other than, ‘let’s see what happens when Shepard drinks enough brandy to kill a thresher maw.’ But it feels self-indulgent in a way that’s surprisingly therapeutic. He’s not sure what a therapist would say about trying to drink his trauma away, but at least it’s for science.

Because it turns out he still _can_ get a little drunk. He just has to want it badly enough.

Mordin keeps up surprisingly well, too. After all, Shepard isn’t the only one with a fast metabolism, and it turns out salarian booze has more kick than Shepard would have given it credit for.

He knows it’s working when he starts talking a little about _then_. Before. His time on the first _Normandy_. The real one. Up until now he’s largely gotten away with keeping their conversations firmly on the telling of Mordin’s life story. His work in the STG. His thoughts on the genophage. They’ve talked about culture. Music. The sonofabitch salarian can _sing_ , which is the biggest surprise yet. But they rarely talk about Shepard, except in the abstract. At first he’d thought it was because Mordin was either uninterested or just indulging his company, but he comes to realize that the salarian is deliberately letting him steer their conversations.

He’s giving Shepard space.

Which might be why when Shepard launches into a story about the goddamn monkeys on Eletania, how he, Garrus and Williams had spent an afternoon wading through refuse looking for a data module while the little fuckers kept winding themselves around – and sometimes biting – their boots, Mordin remains silent perhaps for the first time in his life. Listening. Smiling. Chuckling in the right places. It’s the first time since Shepard came back that he’s really enjoying himself.

It feels good.

He pours another glass from the bottle (he has no idea what it is – doesn’t care) and dredges up a few more stories. The AI they bumbled into on the Citadel. The crazy malfunction on Luna. Conrad Verner.

“That ship was home,” he says, at last. “This one just…isn’t yet. It’s built to look like home. But that love that was ground into the deck plates. This ship hasn’t earned it yet.”

Maybe he’s talking about more than the ship. Or maybe…he’s just drunk.

There’s a buzz in his brain, some delightful numbness in his toes and warmth in his belly. Without thinking, he reaches over and covers Mordin’s hand with his.

“Thanks,” he says. He stops short of elaborating, because he’s not entirely sure what he’s saying thank you for.

Mordin pulls his hand gently away, and Shepard jerks his back in response. Wait. Had he crossed a line? Offended him somehow?

“Shepard,” Mordin says cautiously, “aware that different species react differently to stress. However want to be clear. Flattered by your company, but. Not interested.”

Shepard chokes in mid-swallow and sets his glass down with a clank. It takes a few minutes of coughing mingled with laughter before he can respond.

“Mordin,” he says, when he finally catches his breath. “I don’t want to fuck you. I’m fucking Kirrahe.”

It’s worth the uncertainty lurking behind that bold statement to see Mordin’s face change, surprise blooming over his alien features. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then several more times, without a word. Eventually he coughs into the back of his hand.

“Ah. I see. Very well. Glad we cleared that up.”

Shepard settles back into his chair, still chuckling. There’s a lot he doesn’t know. A lot he doesn’t understand. But at least he can still get drunk.

And at least he has a friend to do it with.  

~

Things don’t go well on Horizon.

Well, the countermeasure does. Not so much as a single swarmer manages to interfere with their mission, and it’s all thanks to Mordin. They don’t have all the answers, but at least they now have more to go on than they did before, and at least this time they manage to save some colonists. It’s a small win, but one they need.

Until he goes toe to toe with Ashley Williams, that is.

_There were rumors you were working for the enemy._

This time the fish in his giant fish tank aren’t comforting. He stands in the head staring at the mirror. At the Cerberus emblem on his chest.

Working for the enemy. She’s not wrong. Miranda told him that she hadn’t implanted a control chip in him. But what if she’s lying? Why is he here with Cerberus, anyway? Because they brought him back from the dead? Because they handed him a ship that was a good enough copy of the old one he could pretend he hadn’t died? What the fuck is he doing here?

It doesn’t help that he suddenly has a line out his door of crew members who need his help with everything from family struggles to coping with a decade of childhood trauma. Like he somehow has all of the answers.

He rests his hands on the sink, leans in for a closer look at his face. Looking for the differences from his old one.  

The reconstruction scars on his face are faint, thin, radiating across his cheek like a fractured mirror. Cerberus’s work has erased the scars he’d earned, christened him with ones he hasn’t.

Shepard swears under his breath, turns on his heel and leaves his quarters. He doesn’t really need to think about where he’s going. His feet just carry him there.

~

Mordin isn’t surprised to see him. After all, Shepard usually turns up somewhere between midnight and 0200.

If the salarian can tell he’s out of sorts he’s polite enough not to say anything, instead offering his usual affable greeting and rambling on about whatever analysis he’s in the middle of. Shepard is pretty sure he talks out loud so much because he’s multitasking – analyzing one subject verbally while he tackles something else mentally. Shepard finds his endless talk relaxing.

So when there’s a lull in the conversation he’s surprised to hear himself say, “Mordin…I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Mordin looks up from a beaker that contains who the fuck knows. Blinks a few times. Shepard pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales, leaning his back against the bulkhead. This isn’t a conversation he should be having. Not with anyone. Shepard’s job is to help other people. He’s the Savior of the Citadel, after all. Fixer of everyone’s problems.

“Nevermind,” Shepard says, “Forget I—”

“Shepard,” Mordin says, voice firm enough that Shepard falls silent. There’s a soft clink as Mordin sets the beaker down. When Shepard finally meets his gaze, the salarian’s expression softens.

“How can I help?”  

Shepard releases the breath he’s unknowingly been holding hostage. “I’m asking all of you to trust your lives to this mission…and I don’t know who I’m really fighting for. Whether I’m using Cerberus, or they’re using me. How can I ask all of you to trust me if I don’t trust myself?”   

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, other one curling into a fist against the bulkead. “Everyone wants my help,” he goes on, fully aware that he hasn’t come close to answering Mordin’s question, hoping that maybe taking a page out of the salarian’s book and babbling about it for a minute will lead him somewhere useful. “But how can I help them if I can’t even help myself?”

Mordin tilts his head, something glinting in his eyes as if something Shepard said has struck a chord. “Perhaps solution _is_ to help yourself,” he says simply.

Shepard raises an eyebrow.

“Focusing too much on mission. Earning loyalty of team members. Yes?”

He hasn’t really thought about it like that, but helping Miranda move her sister to safety has certainly changed things between them. Time will tell, but Shepard has the feeling they’re playing for the same team now, instead of just butting heads.

“Yeah. I suppose that’s a way to look at it. If I can help them sort out some baggage before going on a suicide mission, seems like our chances of success get a little better. We learn to trust each other. Fight for each other.”

Mordin nods. “Perhaps need to earn your _own_ loyalty back.”

His hand unclenches. “My own loyalty, huh? And how can I do that?”

“Not a psychologist,” Mordin says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “However, might be useful to look for a way to come to terms with physical and emotional trauma. For Jack, means blowing up old cell. You? Might be something different.” He leans forward earnestly.  “Something to help you heal.”

Shepard nods absently, brow furrowing in deep thought. “That’s…helpful, Mordin. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Shepard.” Mordin picks up his beaker again, but looks up at Shepard one last time before going back to work. “Will be here if you need me.”

~

An hour or so later Shepard lies in bed, staring upwards at the stars out the observation window in the ceiling of his quarters. It’s the first time he’s really looked at them. Usually he rolls over and tries to shut them out.    

These days he doesn’t like to think about the stars.

He’s spent a lot of time and energy trying not to think about Alchera. Who he lost. What he lost. Who he might still have.

He still hasn’t reached out to Kirrahe. He doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what to say. Salarians move on quickly. Two years will lie between them like a gulf.

It’s not fair. He’s given so much.

Alchera. It had been just a word in a report. It had meant nothing to him, and yet it had taken everything.

Shepard sighs. It’s a deep, heavy sound that starts in his heart. Briefly he closes his eyes, then rolls over and fishes a datapad out of the haphazard stack on his nightstand. He knows exactly which one he’s looking for. In the midst of all the dossiers, intel reports and mission debriefs there’s only one request from the Alliance, and he’s deliberately let it languish at the bottom of the pile.

Alchera is one of the few enemies he’s lost to, and he never even had the chance to look it in the eye. Maybe it’s time he does.    

~

Entry isn’t smooth.

The shuttle bucks through the wind shear, snow billowing across the live feed as they coast in to land on Alchera’s frozen surface. A spike of metal stands unnaturally out of the snow like a beacon marking the final resting place of the _SSV Normandy_. Shepard turns his helmet over absently in his hands, watching the gravesite grow nearer. Just before touchdown he secures the helmet to the ring of his hardsuit and gets to his feet.

He’s gone to war before. And while this time he is not carrying a gun, it somehow feels the same.

The shuttle door opens with a soft hiss. A stiff gale rushes in to meet him, hardsuit registering -21°C. Immediately the thermal regulators go to work to keep him from freezing, and his HUD highlights his body temperature.

He wonders briefly if his suit had tried to notify him about the temperature drop two years ago, as vacuum came seeping through the cracks. Or if he had suffocated before it became his primary problem.

Shepard signals to the shuttle pilot, who lifts off to head back to the ship until Shepard calls for its return.

Snow crunches under his boots. A few meters from the landing zone he stops and looks up. The storm they’d flown through on the way in is all but dissipated here, with only a few stray flurries accenting the white landscape. The sky above him is clearing swiftly, leaving behind rich midnight blue with stars studding the sky like tiny diamonds.

The tomb of the _Normandy_ isn’t far from the landing site. She must have come down largely intact, as it looks like the bulk of her skeleton is all within a fairly self-contained radius.

He’d read the report. Joker had gotten it for him. Full of sterile facts, log transcriptions. There’s even an audio clip from his last moments in the cockpit with Joker. He’d listened to it with an empty hole in his chest. He remembers going back for Joker. He remembers helping him out of his chair, heading for the pod. But from there on, he’s been relying on reports and memories that aren’t his to piece together the rest.

It doesn’t sound too complicated. He’d gotten Joker to a pod, but hadn’t made it in himself. He’d closed it, ejected it, then got caught in the blowback of another particle beam. Seconds later, the drive core had gone up. Miranda’s medical reports speculated back and forth whether he’d been killed instantly by blunt force trauma or suffocated from lack of oxygen. Apparently his hardsuit data was inconclusive on the matter.

He doesn’t remember, the nightmares of tumbling through space through clouds of oxygen offer powerful evidence he hadn’t died from the blast. Somewhere, his brain remembers. Perhaps he’s grateful the only place it bleeds through is when he’s asleep.

There are no disturbances in the snow save for the boot prints he leaves behind him. Likely no one has disturbed the wreckage since the rescue of the crew two years ago. It’s hauntingly beautiful to see up close. The wreckage of his old life neatly preserved under the snow and a blanket of stars.

The first thing he finds is an escape pod. According to the report, Williams had done her job.  All pods had been safely ejected. Most had either made orbit or maneuvered safely to Alchera’s surface to await rescue. A few, however, had not. This looks like one of the latter. He doesn’t linger.  

Chunks of the debris litter the path to a larger hulk of wreckage. When he gets closer he recognizes the hollow tube of the CIC cutting a tunnel through the snow. Just ahead of it the collapsed railing of the galaxy map lays on the ground in a halo of ice. Shepard stoops to run a gauntlet over it. The sensors in his fingers read the composition of the ice, inform him of the temperature. Texture. But he can’t actually feel it. Just the memory of what it felt like under his palms. The CIC of the SR2 looks so similar. Similar but different.

Everything is different. The SR2 is not the _Normandy_. The _Normandy_ is right here, forever entombed on this planet of ice and now. He has to wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier if Cerberus had just given him a completely different ship, instead of trying to resurrect yet another thing that had already been destroyed.

The _Normandy_ is here. Perhaps Shepard, the _real_ Shepard, is still here, too.

Is that what he came here to find out? See if there’s something of himself still here, something he can put a physical finger on to help all of this make sense? Prove that he’s still himself, and not some new and improved copy, complete with leather seats?

He doesn’t know. Standing again, he walks through the crippled tunnel, expecting to find the bridge on the other side. The hatch that he should have crawled into along with Joker, but didn’t.

It’s not there. Just more snow and more sky.

After about half hour of wandering he finds the bridge.

_(I won’t leave the Normandy! I can still save her!)_

Shepard looks at the remnants of the cockpit silently, the thoughts tumbling in his brain refusing to take on any particular shape.

This is it. This is where it had ended for him. He’d died here. Right here. The few steps between the bridge and the escape pod too great for him to cross. Joker had lived and he had died, only to get yanked back from oblivion, stuffed into a reanimated corpse and told it’s an upgrade. He’d given the galaxy everything, right up to his life, but it hadn’t been enough. They’d denied him death because they want still more.

At least if the suicide mission lives up to its name, he’ll have a second chance to get it right. He can’t imagine anyone will come after him through the Omega 4, once they find a way through. Leave it to Shepard to have to die twice to finally get the rest he’s earned, but Anderson always says he likes to do things the hard way.  

Shepard swallows over the lump in his throat. He’s not sure how much he has left to give. Not sure if he has any choice but to give it.

Something catches his eye on the ground a meter or so away. A glint in the snow, something small. At first he thinks it’s just more hull. But when he peers down at it, wiping the snow away to get a better look, his breath catches in his throat.

It’s a dog tag. He has no idea how it got here, or how it’s stayed visible in the snow. Gingerly he threads a finger through the chain and lifts it up, angling it to read the name stamped in the metal.

_Abishek Pakti_

Pakti. Shepard remembers him. A Corporal who’d been born in Mumbai. Short stature, lean, soft spoken but as quick-witted as Mordin. He’d spent all of his time with crewman Dubyansky, the burly Russian with the booming voice.

Both of their names had been on the casualty list in the report. Somehow he’s not surprised they didn’t leave each other behind.

He grips the dog tag tighter. It’s something he can touch. Something he can bring back with him. Make sure it finds its way home.

Shepard exhales. Straightens back up and looks around him until he spies something else familiar. Some of the heaviness lifts, and the corner of his mouth curves upward in an unexpected smile.

Not even the collectors can destroy his tank.

The Mako is perched on a knot of ice in a clearing, as though it had somehow escaped the cargo bay on the way down like a routine planetary drop. One of the tires is mangled, but it otherwise looks magnificently intact. Shepard takes more than a little pride knowing that if he couldn’t wreck the damn thing, no one could have.

The smile grows as he approaches it, sliding a little on the ice in his effort to climb up close. He runs his hands along the hull until he finds the hatch. Frozen shut. Undaunted, Shepard activates his omnitool and dusts the seal with some thermite to melt the layers of ice enough for him to ease the hatch open.

It’s probably not a good idea to worm his way inside but he does. It’s deathly quiet in here, sheltered from the wind. The control panel is empty, no signs of life. But when Shepard sends the command codes through his omnitool – he still knows them by heart – it flares weakly to life.

Shepard eases himself into the driver’s seat. It’s bent out of shape from the impact, but with a little manhandling he manages to sit without forcing his knees into his chestplate. Even in its damaged state, it feels normal, natural, to sit here. He’d never personally flown the _Normandy_ , but he’d sure as shit flown the Mako. Sometimes off the side of a mountain. Hell, he’d driven it through a mass relay. Pretty sure no one else in the galaxy could claim anything like that.

He settles deeper into the seat. It’s permanently wedged in a way that makes his back ache, but to him it feels like home. Alchera still sits silently outside the windshield, the smooth sheet of snow broken only by boot prints and peaks of metal standing brazenly against the elements. It’s the first time since coming to on Lazarus Station that he feels like he can breathe a little.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting there until his comm panel chirps. It’s Mordin.

_“Checking to see if you need assistance, Shepard.”_

Shepard shakes his head before remembering Mordin can’t see him. “I’m fine, Mordin. Just…taking some time for me. I’ll be back soon.”

_“Understood,”_ the salarian says simply. The comm line goes quiet.

Shepard exhales. The _Normandy_ had been the first place since Mindoir that had felt like home. Whatever had happened to him here, and whatever he is now because of it, he can’t come back. But, he reasons, neither can any of the others. Williams. Joker. Chakwas. Garrus. Liara. Tali. They’re all different. Alchera changed them all. He can stay here and mourn what no longer exists, or he can push forward. Only way out is through.  

After a few more minutes Shepard stiffly pulls himself up out of the seat. Gives the interior one last look before he hauls himself out. This time, he’s leaving it behind by choice.

~

When he calls the shuttle back down, the door slides open to reveal Mordin waiting for him. He offers Shepard a greeting and pats the seat next to him as the door seals shut. Shepard sits gratefully, loosens the seals on his helmet and pulls it off. His first exhale materializes in a puff of condensation as he sheds the chill of Alchera.

The helmet rests on his knee as the shuttle engine whines and prepares to take flight.

Mordin starts to ask him a question, but then reconsiders and for once lets silence do the talking.

But he does take Shepard’s hand, and holds it all the way back to the ship.

 


End file.
